SIR,—­That you may be at more certainty hereafter what to think, let me tell you that nothing could hinder me from writing to you (as well for my own satisfaction as yours) but an impossibility of doing it; nothing but death or a dead palsy in my hands, or something that had the same effect.  I did write it, and gave it Harrold, but by an accident his horse fell lame, so that he could not set out on Monday; but on Tuesday he did come to town; on Wednesday, carried the letter himself (as he tells me) where ’twas directed, which was to Mr. Copyn in Fleet Street.  ’Twas the first time I made use of that direction; no matter and I had not done it then, since it proves no better.  Harrold came late home on Thursday night with such an account as your boy gave you:  that coming out of town the same day he came in, he had been at Fleet Street again, but there was no letter for him.  I was sorry, but I did not much wonder at it because he gave so little time, and resolved to make my best of that I had by Collins.  I read it over often enough to make it equal with the longest letter that ever was writ, and pleased myself, in earnest (as much as it was possible for me in the humour I was in), to think how by that time you had asked me pardon for the little reproaches you had made me, and that the kindness and length of my letter had made you amends for the trouble it had given you in expecting it.  But I am not a little annoyed to find you had it not.  I am very confident it was delivered, and therefore you must search where the fault lies.

Were it not that you had suffered too much already, I would complain a little of you.  Why should you think me so careless of anything that you were concerned in, as to doubt that I had writ?  Though I had received none from you, I should not have taken that occasion to revenge myself.  Nay, I should have concluded you innocent, and have imagined a thousand ways how it might happen, rather than have suspected your want of kindness.  Why should not you be as just to me?  But I will not chide, it may be (as long as we have been friends) you do not know me so well yet as to make an absolute judgment of me; but if I know myself at all, if I am capable of being anything, ’tis a perfect friend.  Yet I must chide too.  Why did you get such a cold?  Good God! how careless you are of a life that (by your own confession) I have told you makes all the happiness of mine.  ’Tis unkindly done.  What is left for me to say, when that will not prevail with you; or how can you persuade me to a cure of myself, when you refuse to give me the example?  I have nothing in the world that gives me the least desire of preserving myself, but the opinion I have you would not be willing to lose me; and yet, if you saw with what caution I live (at least to what I did before), you would reproach it to yourself sometimes, and might grant, perhaps, that you have not got the advantage of me in friendship so much as you imagine.  What (besides your consideration) could oblige me to live and lose all the rest of my friends thus one after another?  Sure I am not insensible nor very ill-natured, and yet I’ll swear I think I do not afflict myself half so much as another would do that had my losses.  I pay nothing of sadness to the memory of my poor brother, but I presently disperse it with thinking what I owe in thankfulness that ’tis not you I mourn for.